“Up,” a stocky, sweaty man barks as he wraps the metal around my throat again. A tremble rolls through me when I feel it stifle my mind, trapping me fully in this body. I hate this sensation, but at least now I don’t have to fight to keep my thoughts here. To prevent them from searching for Fhord.
I barely notice the trek back to my cell. Hints of an occasional sharp, stabbing pain break through my stupor as I stumble along the winding corridors, but my mind is dazed, my blood loss too great to stay alert. A wave of relief washes over me as I realize I’m being dragged back to the same little cage. They toss me in, the door clanging behind me, and then I’m gone, my body demanding the sleep it needs to heal.
It’s dark when I wake up, a heaviness hovering in the prison, as if the air itself needs light in order to drift around me unencumbered. For just a moment, I’m in the caves adjacent to the Nest, Fhord’s comforting presence a few feet away as we hold a needed distance between us. I can hear his steady breathing, almost but not quite mimicking the sleep we both should be chasing. His scent of coriander and cloves fills the space.
Just for a moment.
Too soon, my eyes open and I look around, a chill wafting into every part of me.
I’m in the Nest.
Again.
Forever.
“How are you, Sifa?” Joralf’s voice floats toward me, concern layered through each word.
The groan erupts before I can stop it.How am I? I have no idea.
Looking down, I can see my wounds are healing. A little blood still seeps out of the worst of them, but very little. The pain pounds through me—every severed or damaged nerve ending reminding me what it suffered—but it’s not as overwhelming as when I collapsed. Soon, the pain will give way to an unbearable itch. I’m grateful to not be there quite yet.
“I’ve been better,” I answer with a laugh after a few moments. “I’m alive. So there’s that.”
“You are alive,” Joralf echoes. “For now, that’s a good thing.”
“It does feel like a blessing right now. I guess when I’ve been here nearly eight hundred days, it will feel like a curse. And I’ll wish for death like you do.”
“Perhaps,” Joralf concedes. “Or perhaps not. Every elf responds differently to challenges such as these.”
“Challenges,” I ponder. “That’s what this is? A challenge?”
“What else would it be?” Joralf’s tone matches my mood—dark and pensive. “The gods have wicked senses of humor. We are their toys. They delight in watching us struggle.”
“Do you really believe that?” The gods in my worlds—at least the ones who controlled things—did not savor misery as the gods seem to do here.
Joralf doesn’t answer right away. When his words float to me, they hold so much sadness, it almost brings a tear to my eyes. “I can find no other reason for their actions, the games they play with our lives, the pain they relish, drawing it from us in all its varieties and nuances. I’ve come to conclude the gods grew bored with all the good this world has to offer and found that wickedness, depravity, sorrow, better filled their days. And their nights.”
“That’s a very depressing outlook.” My words barely made it out of my corner of this dungeon. “But I can’t deny its truth in this world we call home.”
“Most certainly, my dear little elf. Most certainly.” Joralf sucks in a deep breath, as if he can draw away all the horror that hovers between us. “Still, we need not wallow in the misery they would hoist upon us. We are elves. We write our own stories, even when others would try to filch our quill.”
“And what story should we write today?” I can feel my mood lighten with Joralf’s shift. I need the distraction he’s offered me. “What’s your mate’s name?” I ask after a moment.
“That I cannot tell you. The Dróttning cannot know how to find any of us. She has not been able to wring that knowledge from me. And she will not.”
“Can you tell me about him? Something that doesn’t risk exposing him?”
I can almost feel the smile in Joralf’s voice when he responds. “It’s been a very long time since I’ve been asked about him. Thank you.” He pauses for a moment and I can hear him shuffle around in his room, as if he’s settled in to share his tale. “Shall we call him Bjorn? It’s not his name, but it shall do.”
“Bjorn’s a great name. Full of strength.”
“It suits him, I think. He is the strongest elf I’ve ever known.” Joralf is quiet for a long time. When he speaks, his love echoes through every word. “I first saw him across the dining room in an inn just outside the town. He sat with a group of others who shared his trade. He was the center of their conversation, laughing and drawing mirth from all. That’s what attracted me to him at first. His laugh. When our eyes met, I felt something shift inside me. I soon learned he did as well.”
“Is that how all mating bonds work? You know right away when it exists?” I don’t know why I’m so curious, but I am.
“Not all,” Joralf tells me. “As I understand it, you both must be ready for a mate, willing to acknowledge the bond. If either mate is resistant, the bond will resist too. But it happens so rarely in this world, I don’t know how it might feel for others.”
“What happened after you saw each other?”
